


Bullets

by orphan_account



Category: It's War (MBLAQ Music Video), MBLAQ
Genre: Gen, Implied Character Death, Pre-Canon, Slash if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A killer and his target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hydrangea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangea/gifts).



Joon goes to the firing range the way some people go to church. It's meditative. The company's range is a sanctuary in gleaming white and steel, shelves stocked with anything one of their employees could ask for. Boxes of ammunition. Scopes in various sizes. Protective gear to block out the sounds of the world around him. The booths are usually empty, and on the odd occasion when he does run into someone else down here, there's never any attempt at conversation between them. Company men. Familiar faces without any names attached.

There's a rhythm to shooting, a ritual to it. The familiar mess of equipment laid out before him. The feel of the bullets against the pad of his thumb as he presses them down into the magazine, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight; the click of the loaded magazine sliding home. Exhale. The space between breaths, between heartbeats. Squeeze the trigger.

Dots bloom in a paper target. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Reload.

The other bullets this time, the ones wrapped up in their own wooden box, marked with swirling lines. The ones that always go just where he wants them; the ones he can't touch without remembering the first time he held them. The hand laid over his, tilting his grip. The hand on his hip, guiding his stance, just so.

But Seungho isn't here anymore.

The bullets slide into the magazine one by one, the loaded magazine clicks into place, and dots bloom in a second paper target, ten meters behind the first. One, two, three. Miss.

He lowers the gun.

 

* * *

 

The junkyard is dark and silent when Joon lets himself in to Sanghyun's place, and the door sliding shut sounds loud in his ears. Sanghyun doesn't stir, not even when Joon opens the door to the mini fridge, throwing light over Sanghyun's face for a moment.

He settles beside the window with one of Sanghyun's cheap beers, flips open his cell phone, thumbs through the menu from one file to the next. Photos of a woman, most of them taken from a distance or not quite in focus. Facts, figures, her schedule, a location. A deadline.

Joon doesn't miss. He doesn't know how to miss. His bullets go just where he wants them, every time. All he ever has to do is decide on the target.

Somewhere in the distance a siren wails. He's not sure how long he's been sitting there, looking at a blurry photo of a woman he doesn't know.

 

* * *

 

In the morning he wakes to the smell of black tea and a blanket that hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep. He digs out his usual mug from the back of the shelf, and Sanghyun doesn't ask him where he's been these past few weeks, or why he's dropped in now. Sanghyun stopped asking him questions a long time ago. They eat breakfast with the TV on, talk show hosts providing a running chatter.

Joon goes out and finds some old bottles among the junk heaps, sets them up, a neat line in front of the rusting old skeleton of an abandoned car. In his mind's eye, he sees bullets weaving impossible curves through space, a row of holes across the side of the car and a row of bottles left untouched, not one so much as nudged out of place. It's easy. It's routine. He's done this a hundred times.

When he lowers his rifle, there's one hole in the side of the car, one bottle still standing, and a minefield of bottle glass scattered on the ground.

He kicks the last bottle over to shatter among the rest before realizing that Sanghyun's watching him.

"What do you know, you're human after all," Sanghyun says as Joon dismantles his gun. When Joon looks up at him, Sanghyun has his mouth open like he's about to say something else, but their eyes meet and Sanghyun closes his mouth without saying anything.

When Sanghyun looks away, his glance slides to the right, over Joon's shoulder. Like he was expecting to see someone there, maybe. But Sanghyun doesn't ask what happened to Seungho. He's always been good at not asking questions.

 

* * *

 

The target sticks to a regular schedule: a daily commute, a daily lunch break, always at the same time, always at the same place. It's easy to find a suitable building along her route where he can set up shop, a nice quiet place, a nice balcony with a nice clear view of the nice empty street. Everything about this job is nice and easy. He could do this on autopilot. There's no need for him to think about anything, no need for him to hesitate.

No reason for him to miss his target.

Joon slips a hand into his coat pocket and finds the bullet nestled there, palms it, runs his thumb over the familiar lines etched into the surface, the swirls and twists of it.

_Seungho. What would you do?_

The target arrives right on schedule. This street is nearly empty at this hour, and her steps are slow as she walks with her head down, doing something with her phone; he compares the girl on the street with one of the photos from his file, and she looks up obligingly, lets him confirm her identity. His rifle is ready and waiting.

Joon treats shooting as a ritual for a reason: it removes the need to think. The familiar feel of the bullets handled one by one, count them as you load, count them again as you pull the trigger. The familiar weight of the rifle in his arms, the lines of the scope, the focus on these small sensations, the little actions practiced over and over again carrying him forward to the inevitable conclusion with no room for debate, nothing to think about but these simple motions. Target in sight. Finger on the trigger. Exhale. The space between breaths, between heartbeats.

_What would you do, Seungho?_

_What should I have done?_


End file.
